


Place For My Head

by dracoqueen22



Series: Play By Numbers [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Dark Cybertron, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 14:38:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: There were all kinds of vices in the universe, ways to cope or forget, and Jazz had spent his nights in one berth or another, indulging in his. He never would have thought he’d find a kindred spirit in Bluestreak.





	

The muted round of applause at the end of their final set was a far cry from the loud and boisterous crowds Jazz had once performed for. But on a post-war Cybertron, in a bar full of mechs mostly Autobot and Neutral and the rare, brave Decepticon, Jazz supposed a moderate applause might as well be a roaring, standing ovation.  
  
He’d take what he could get.  
  
Jazz slipped into a shallow bow, even as he flicked off his electro-bass and spun it around, tucking the instrument back into the protective case. This baby had survived centuries upon centuries of war. Taking care of it had become the only thing that mattered to him.  
  
It was all he had left of a life he’d all but forgotten.  
  
“There were nights I dreamed of applause,” Sky-Byte said as he moved to Jazz’s side, watching Jazz pack up the Aghartan electro-bass. He transformed back to root mode, somehow all the fiercer for it.  
  
“It leaves ya a little wantin’ now, don’t it?” Jazz asked as he flicked the clips into place and swept his palm over the top of the case.  
  
“On the contrary.” Sky-Byte’s vocals warmed, as they often did when on stage, his lyrical poems shifting into eulogies for the dead. “Somehow, this feels more genuine.”  
  
Sometimes, Sky-Byte didn’t make a lick of sense.  
  
Jazz made a non-committal noise. He stood up and slung the case over his shoulder, shifting his weight to accommodate the addition of it.  
  
“If it means we’re that much closer to somethin’ like peace, that’s more’n I could ask for,” Jazz said with a shrug. His tires bobbed.  
  
Sky-Byte grinned with a mouthful of razor-sharp denta. “Well said, my musical friend.” He clapped Jazz on the opposite shoulder. “Join me for a drink?”  
  
“Nah. Think I’ll just grab a sip and head on out.” It was too early to be tired, but Jazz was starting to feel the weight of it all.  
  
Especially since the background music decided to crackle back to life, pouring out some noxious noise that a badly misinformed dreamer had been told was music. Jazz winced, his audials cringing.  
  
“Ah, I love this song,” Sky-Byte said with another one of those sharklike grins. “But very well. If you change your mind, feel free to join us.” His hand slid from Jazz’s shoulder as he tilted his head toward a table already almost over-full with patrons.  
  
“Will do.”  
  
Sky-Byte wandered away. Jazz adjusted the weight of his electro-bass on his shoulder, debating for all of a moment whether he wanted to drag it back to the relative safety of his so-called home, or leave it locked here in the bar. Blurr would look after it.  
  
But it hadn’t survived the war this long by Jazz being careless. He’d take it home.  
  
Jazz hopped down from the stage, slipped through the crowd, and wedged himself in at the bar, catching Blurr’s attention almost immediately. He suspected the former Racer had been watching for him.  
  
“Good set,” Blurr said as he dropped an empty tumbler in front of Jazz, slipping a bottle out from under the counter at the same time.  
  
“Thanks.” Jazz rested his hand over the lip of the tumbler. “Just a weak spritzer this time, boss.”  
  
Blurr cycled his optics. “You sure?”  
  
Somewhere, on the other side of the bar, a group of noisy patrons were laughing. Someone banged their first on the table. The dull, heavy thud made Jazz flinch. He hoped Blurr didn’t notice.  
  
“Yeah, ‘M sure.”  
  
Blurr shrugged and juggled his bottles, swapping Jazz’s preferred blend out for the bland engex he’d asked for. It was carbonated, so it fizzed, and the flavor was barely deserving of the term. But it was still a damn sight better than milrats.  
  
Intoxication was not Jazz’s balm tonight. Not this time.  
  
Maybe if he was lucky, he could find Tracks somewhere around here. Mech couldn’t be found in Maccadam’s much; he didn’t like crowds. He did tend to loiter around outside Kimia though, watching the Decepticons trudge in and out of their pen.  
  
Jazz didn’t know why. He didn’t ask. Sometimes, a mech’s secrets were their own.  
  
“You can put it on my tab, Blurr.”  
  
Jazz startled. “Nah, mech. It ain’t a creds issue,” he said, turning to address the generous mech beside him, and it took an embarrassingly long time for recognition to dawn inside him. Primus, he was tired. “Oh, hey, Blue. Didn’t see ya there.”  
  
Bluestreak grinned at him, that adorable bright-optic grin he was known for. “You were pretty focused back there. Like you had a plan and an intention to stick to it.” He leaned against the bar, doorwings fluttering behind him, one hand curled around a tall glass with a swirly straw poking out of the bubbling pink fuel. “You were performing for awhile. Sure you don’t need more than that?”  
  
That being the weak spritzer Blurr pushed across the counter toward Jazz before he was off at the summons of an anxious customer. Blurr grumbled, but there was something good-natured in it.  
  
Mech liked attention, he did. Too bad him working all the time meant he rarely had room in his berth anymore. Jazz didn’t have the patience to wait around for a ‘face that might be too tired by the time he found his berth.  
  
“I’m sure.” Jazz sipped at the spritzer, cool and refreshing as it slipped over his glossa and down his intake. He needed his full faculties for the hunt, after all. Especially if he couldn’t lay optics on Tracks. “Thanks anyway.”  
  
“Anytime.” Bluestreak beamed, his doorwings giving a delighted jutter. “How’ve you been, commander? I know things have been pretty weird around here.”  
  
“If by weird, you mean good, then yeah, they have.” Jazz forced a laugh, planting a smile on his lips. “And you ain’t gotta call me that, Blue. I don’t really command much these days.”  
  
He didn’t mention Earth. He didn’t think about Earth. Command was for bots like Bumblebee and Prowl and Opti-- Orion Pax. Not mechs who made slag-poor decisions like Jazz.  
  
Jazz slipped into a more casual stance and sipped again at his spritzer. “’Sides there ain’t much use for it anyway. With the peace and all.”  
  
“Right. The peace.” Bluestreak leaned against the counter, bracing himself with his elbow. “So you don’t work much with Prowl or Bee anymore, I guess.”  
  
“Nah.” Jazz cracked a big, broad grin. He flashed half his visor in a wink. “Too busy celebrating. You know how it is.”  
  
Celebrating. Like he knew what that word meant. They weren’t enveloped in peace right now. This barely qualified as a truce. They were just about right where they started, with the Senate’s goons surrounding freedom fighters who grumbled to themselves, and plotted a way to strike back.  
  
Standing on the knife’s edge they were. But Jazz wasn’t a commander. He just killed people. So he supposed he’d wait until they pointed him again.  
  
“Not so much,” Bluestreak replied, some of the humor draining from his voice. “Kind of feels like we’re all creeping through a field of landmines with hair-triggers.”  
  
How true. No wonder Jazz’s backstrut wouldn’t stop crawling, and he couldn’t seem to stay still. It didn’t qualify as peace, so he couldn’t be peaceful. But it wasn’t quite war either, so it left him floundering.  
  
Still, Jazz shrugged. He might not be a commander, but he had been once upon a time, and there were certain standards of behavior to uphold.  
  
“Better than war,” he said. An arguable point.  
  
War, he understood.  
  
Bluestreak drained half his glass in one pull. “I don’t see much of a difference, honestly.”  
  
Jazz narrowed his optics behind his visor. He gave Bluestreak a long, discerning look. He tapped on his files, pulling up what he knew of Bluestreak. It really wasn’t much. Blue was a sniper, so he tended to fall under the command of mechs like Kup, Ironhide, Prowl, whoever was directing the frontlines. He never worked under Jazz.  
  
Rumor had it that he was chatty, friendly to a default, and carried the weight of survivor’s guilt on his shoulders. One of the few mechs pulled out of the rubble of Praxus, according to his file. Not that you’d know it, given his overall cheer.  
  
Then again, Jazz should know better. Lots of things could be hidden behind a smile and a laugh.  
  
Jazz tilted his head. “We ain’t shooting each other,” he pointed out.  
  
Bluestreak leaned closer, as though conspiratorially. “Bullets aren’t always made of laserfire and acid,” he said, barely loud enough for Jazz to hear, the brightness of his optics somehow less cheer and more cutting in that moment.  
  
Jazz stared at him.  
  
“You two need a refill?” Blurr asked, with that uncanny ability to pop into a patron’s conversation at the most awkward of moments. Mech hadn’t been a bartender long, but he sure learned that little trick fast.  
  
Jazz finished off his spritzer and set the empty tumbler on the counter. “Nah. I’m headin’ out.”  
  
Bluestreak sighed a soft sound of regret, and grinned at Blurr. “Would if I could,” he said, and it was like a switch had been flipped, the darkness gone in the wake of shining optics and a quiet giggle. “But I think I’ve had too much already.”  
  
Blurr chuckled. “If you say so. Holler if you decide otherwise.” He shifted his attention to Jazz, smile turning to a warning look. “Behave yourself.”  
  
“Why would ya say that?” Jazz demanded, indignant, his armor ruffling.  
  
But Blurr was already gone, jetting off to help another patron, moving fluidly behind his bar as if he’d been doing it his entire life. Post-war, not quite peace suited him, in the same way it suited a lot of mechs around here.  
  
It didn’t suit Jazz.  
  
He wondered, as he shifted his attention back to Bluestreak, if maybe it didn’t suit Blue either.  
  
Bluestreak chuckled dryly and drained the last of his engex, his doorwings arched behind him again. “I think he’s protecting my honor,” he said.  
  
Jazz huffed. “Does it need defendin’?”  
  
Bluestreak’s engine audibly purred, and he leaned close enough that Jazz caught a whiff of the hot-metal, gun-oil scent of him. He licked around the rim of his glass, cleaning it, before he set it on the counter, empty.  
  
“I’ve a single in the barracks,” he said, conversational tone if anyone wasn’t paying attention, but Jazz heard the intent behind it. “Want to find out?”  
  
There were all kinds of vices. Coping mechanisms. Unhealthy addictions. Ways to waste the time or pass the time. Ways to forget.  
  
Jazz liked the burn of high grade. Liked the way it turned the world warm and fuzzy if only for a little while. Liked the excuse to abandon his inhibitions and pretend he was something else for a while.  
  
But nothing beat the sweet oblivion of overload. The scorching pleasure that whited out the world until it swallowed him.  
  
He’d recharge good tonight, and maybe only tonight, but at least this one. A single night in a sea of restless wandering and tossing and turning with the occasional shared berth to bring him back to that bliss.  
  
Guess he wouldn’t have to go hunting after all.  
  
“Yeah.” Jazz pushed away from the bar, adjusting the weight of his instrument again. “Lead on, baby Blue.”  
  
Behave, Blurr had said.  
  
Sorry, boss.  
  
It just ain’t in his nature.  
  


~

  
  
Bluestreak tasted like one off those sweet, fizzy drinks Jazz teased Blurr about offering on the menu. But his kisses were as fierce as Nightmare Fuel, and the scrape of his denta pooled hot pleasure in Jazz’s tank like a Smelter’s Punch.  
  
Jazz groaned, panting into the kiss, trapped between Bluestreak and Bluestreak’s door, which was firm and cold behind him. Jazz clutched at Bluestreak’s sides, his fingers trembling, his thighs parting for the knee nudging urgently between them. Lust swirled dangerously quick inside his spark, his array cycling into fast readiness.  
  
He denied his spike, as he always did, and trembled as his valve lubricated, his calipers twitching and clicking out of anticipation.  
  
Bluestreak’s field was heavy, intoxicating where it pressed around and against his, an intangible grip as firm as the one Bluestreak had on his hips. Bluestreak’s engine purred, loud and forceful, vibrating straight to the core of Jazz’s frame. He’d barely had enough time to set his electro-bass aside before Bluestreak was kissing him, just like this, deep and forceful and _perfect_.  
  
Jazz moaned again as Bluestreak yanked their frames together, Jazz’s groin rasping up the length of Bluestreak’s thigh, leaving a streak of seeping lubricant behind. His valve burned, sensor clusters throbbing. He rolled his hips, riding Bluestreak’s thigh, fingers hooked into transformation seams. Metal ground on metal, hot and rasping, as Bluestreak devoured his mouth, kisses so deep and wet, like drowning.  
  
He didn’t know where the berth was. They hadn’t managed to activate the lights and Bluestreak’s room was small, cramped and bathed in shadows. A few emergency runners weren’t enough to see and frankly, it didn’t matter.  
  
They didn’t need a berth.  
  
This, right here, was good enough.  
  
Jazz shifted his weight, curled a leg around Bluestreak’s waist, opening himself up. He ground against Bluestreak, array panel scorching and demanding.  
  
“Frag me,” he panted into the kiss, shivering as Bluestreak’s field pressed in around him, stroking into his seams like it had physical shape. He’d heard of mechs who could play with field manipulation, but he’d never felt it. Not like this.  
  
Bluestreak’s hands tightened on his hips, grip firmer than Jazz would have ever expected of the friendly mech. He lifted Jazz, shoving him up the wall with an audible scrape of paint against metal and Jazz wrapped his legs around Bluestreak’s hips, his thighs pressed around Bluestreak’s frame.  
  
“Gotta open for me, sir,” Bluestreak said against his lips, half-plea, half-demand. He rolled his hips, grinding his panel against Jazz’s own, the heat surging from behind it a match to Jazz’s. “Gotta let me in so I can frag you into this wall like I can tell you want. Gotta open up and let me in.”  
  
Frag.  
  
Jazz moaned and bit at Bluestreak’s bottom lip, the sniper’s ex-vents washing over him. “Don’t need no defendin’,” he observed. His panel snicked aside, lubricant spilling out, soaking Bluestreak’s frame, dripping down his aft.  
  
“Not once,” Bluestreak replied, and his panel snapped open, spike emerging, as he rolled his hips and sank into Jazz in one, deep thrust.  
  
Jazz moaned, his back curving, head hitting the door behind him. He clutched at Bluestreak’s shoulders, the nodes in his valve singing with pleasure, his calipers cinching tight, his thighs trembling. He panted for ventilations as Bluestreak set up a sharp pace, filling him in earnest, each deep thrust painting Jazz’s ceiling node.  
  
Jazz had nothing to do but enjoy, his hips squirming in Bluestreak’s hold, his valve swallowing Bluestreak’s spike with each rough plunge. His vents spun to stuttered life, heat slamming into his frame, his back scraping against the door behind him, leaving an awful screeching sound.  
  
He’d need a repaint; he didn’t care.  
  
Bluestreak’s engine growled. He thrust up into Jazz even as he pulled Jazz down, grinding deep, oh so deep, and Jazz shattered. He whimpered as he overloaded, bucking against Bluestreak’s frame, his valve spasming.  
  
Bluestreak muttered something, words lost to the rushing in Jazz’s audials. He circled his hips, stirring his spike amid the crackle-clutch of Jazz’s valve, until the hot wash of his overload caressed Jazz’s sparking nodes. He shuddered, another jolt of pleasure lancing up his backstrut, his hands forming fists where they beat on Bluestreak’s shoulders.  
  
He panted, thoughts dizzying, his frame thrumming from the force of his overload. Oh, yes, that was the ticket there. White noise and white-hot pleasure, all enough to drown out the downward spiral.  
  
“You’re a menace, Blue,” Jazz said, only a bit alarmed to find his vocalizer croaking. “How long’ve you been hiding that?”  
  
Bluestreak grinned and nipped at Jazz’s bottom lip, his optics bright and consuming. “Always been, Jazz,” he said, circling his hips, stirring his softer spike through the muddled mess in Jazz’s valve. “You just never noticed.”  
  
“Well, ‘M sorry for that now,” he said, rolling his hips with Bluestreak, more heat crawling down his backstrut and up again. “Got another one in there for me?”  
  
“Let’s find out,” Bluestreak purred, his rolling vocals vibrating straight through to Jazz’s spark.  
  
He moaned, arching toward Bluestreak, but the sniper pulled back. A mischievous curve to his lips was Jazz’s only warning before Bluestreak urged one of Jazz’s legs back toward the ground, and Bluestreak followed it. He started to kneel, still cradling Jazz’s hips with his hands.  
  
Jazz licked his lips, head tilted with curiosity. “Whatcha doin’ there, Blue?”  
  
“Tasting,” Bluestreak said, one of his hands leaving Jazz’s hip to guide his leg over Bluestreak’s shoulder. He leaned in, ex-venting hot bursts over Jazz’s exposed array, fluids dripping out of his valve. “If you don’t mind, that is. Turns out I want a refill after all.”  
  
Jazz’s hands formed fists. He tucked them at his side, if only to stop himself from grabbing Bluestreak’s head and shoving it toward his throbbing valve.  
  
“Be my guest,” he said, tone strangled, and an embarrassing noise squeaked past his lips as Bluestreak’s mouth descended on his valve.  
  
He pressed a soft, so soft kiss to Jazz’s anterior node cluster. He nuzzled it with his lips, the faintest brush of the dermal brush better a tease. Jazz’s hips rolled forward, his leg trembling where it rested over Bluestreak’s shoulder.  
  
“Ah, don’t be a tease, Blue,” Jazz groaned. His engine purred, his ventilations stuttering.  
  
“Just saying hello,” Bluestreak murmured and dragged his lips down, brushing them over the swollen folds of Jazz’s valve. He audibly pulled in a ventilation as though scenting Jazz before he pressed a kiss to Jazz’s dripping center.  
  
Oh, Primus.  
  
Jazz’s knee wobbled. He shoved a fist at his mouth, gnawing on his knuckles. His valve clenched on nothing, nub pulsing fitfully.  
  
Bluestreak licked him, long and slow, from posterior cluster to anterior nub, lapping up a mixture of his own transfluid and Jazz’s lubricants in the process. Jazz’s head knocked back against the door as his hips surged toward Bluestreak’s mouth, lips wrapping around his anterior node cluster and suckling on it, long suctioning pulls that seemed to drag Jazz’s arousal back to a roaring blaze.  
  
Jazz gasped, denta grinding as light danced behind his visor. Bluestreak’s mouth made lewd sounds as he licked and sucked and savored, denta scraping in just the tiniest bit to make Jazz’s hips jerk. He licked over Jazz’s posterior node and went back to mouthing his anterior cluster, before shoving his glossa deep, so deep. He hummed a little delighted sound, like feasting on a sweet energon jelly.  
  
Primus save him.  
  
Jazz’s vents stuttered. His valve rippled, calipers cycling down, fluttering on nothing, his hips taking up a rhythm of their own. His fists knocked against the door if only for a modicum of respect, but that vanished as Bluestreak pinned his anterior node between his denta and applied a steady pressure.  
  
Jazz yelped, pain bleeding into pleasure, hot-white and consuming. He flailed, grabbed Bluestreak’s head, and hung on for the ride. His foot drummed against Bluestreak’s back, between his doorwings, as lips and denta and glossa wreaked merry havoc.  
  
“Primus,” Jazz moaned, his leg trembling, his vents roaring, his fingers tugging Bluestreak against his array, grinding down, riding the motions of Bluestreak’s mouth.  
  
Hands on his thighs and hips tightened. Bluestreak chuckled and hummed, the vibrations dancing across Jazz’s array and spilling charge into his lines. He nipped and sucked and licked until Jazz jerked, overloading hard against Bluestreak’s mouth, grinding down to eke out every last burst of pleasure.  
  
Jazz sagged, panting, his hold on Bluestreak’s head gentling. “Primus, Blue,” he gasped as Bluestreak’s ministrations gentled, lips nuzzling Jazz’s valve as his glossa licked up trickles of lubricant. “You’re gonna drain me dry.”  
  
Bluestreak chuckled against his valve. “That’s the idea,” he purred before pressing a kiss to Jazz’s anterior node and drawing back, his face wet with lubricant. “Isn’t that what you were looking for tonight anyway?”  
  
Jazz blinked behind his visor. “Yeah, but how do you know that?”  
  
Bluestreak licked his lips and eased Jazz’s leg from over his shoulder, only to tug on Jazz’s hips, guiding him into sliding down the door until he was perched in Bluestreak’s lap, a pressurized spike rubbing over the swollen pleats of his valve.  
  
“Takes one to know one,” Bluestreak said as he leaned in, mouth dragging over the curve of Jazz’s jaw. He rolled his hips, grinding his spike against Jazz’s valve. “What do ya say, sir? One more for the both of us? One more dance in the dark?”  
  
Jazz clutched at Bluestreak’s shoulders, his knees digging into the ground as he rocked his hips, riding hard along the length of Bluestreak’s spike.  
  
“You’re speaking my language, baby Blue,” Jazz said with a crooked grin. “Give me all you got, I’ll take every bit of it.”  
  
Bluestreak chuckled and nibbled his way to Jazz’s audial, ex-venting hot and wet over it. “Don’t know if you could handle all of me, sir,” he said, even as he canted his hips and slid deep into Jazz again, his spike head grinding hard and steady over Jazz’s ceiling node.  
  
Jazz moaned, back arching, clutching onto Bluestreak’s shoulders as his calipers rippled and danced around Bluestreak’s spike. It felt so good, in the wake of that other overload, and his valve was primed for it, surging back to the forefront of pleasure as though he’d never left it.  
  
“Think I’m more than you’re ready for,” Bluestreak continued, vocals dark and wet as they slithered into Jazz’s audials. “Think if you saw what I really am, you’d run away.”  
  
Jazz licked his lips, sinking down hard on Bluestreak’s spike, shivering as charged nodes sent jagged lines of pleasure through his frame. “Ya forget who I am, mech?” he asked, optics shifting toward Bluestreak behind the visor. “I don’t run from anythin’.”  
  
Bluestreak pumped up into Jazz, grinding slow and deep, until charge built up in increasingly powerful waves. Jazz rocked and rolled to the rhythm, hissing air through his vents as the ecstasy built within him. Pleasure, now, that was easy.  
  
Bluestreak’s mouth dipped toward his intake, denta nipping at his cables and making Jazz quiver. He bit at Jazz’s intake, the pressure of his denta as much promise as warning.  
  
“Would you let me take you then?” he asked, the words whispered against the vulnerability of Jazz’s intake. “Could I claim you? Make you mine?”  
  
His denta pressed in again, hard enough for the pressure to register, for mild warnings to crop up in Jazz’s queue. His fingers dug into Jazz’s seams, pressing hard on the cables beneath, short throbs of pain radiating through his hips.  
  
“Can I keep you?” Bluestreak asked, vocals more urgent now, hungry. Jazz found himself swept away by them, this song that purred right to his spark. “Tame you? Put you on your knees?”  
  
Jazz groaned as his frame spasmed, his valve clamping down hard, milking the spike steadily pumping into him. “Yer killin’ me.”  
  
Bluestreak nibbled on his intake cables, chuckling against the delicate lines “That’s not a ‘no’.” He rocked harder up into Jazz, grinding hard and fierce against his ceiling node. “Overload for me again, sir. Spill all over my spike. I promise to clean it up, lay you out on my berth until I get every drop.”  
  
Jazz whimpered, his back arching, lust a hot slice in his lines. Bluestreak bit at him again, denta laving a hot pressure, and his field urging and demanding. It reached right to Jazz’s core, pulling out his pleasure and laying him bare.  
  
He writhed, gasping as the ecstasy snatched him up and swallowed him whole. His knees scraped the floor, his valve fluttering wildly around Bluestreak’s spike in another overload. The younger mech kept up the deep, grinding rhythm, extending Jazz’s pleasure but not taking any for himself. His spike throbbed hotly within Jazz’s valve, even as Jazz abruptly sagged, panting for ventilations.  
  
His visor half-lit, blearily focusing on Bluestreak. He felt dazed, adrift in a sea of sensation, one that swept him away when Bluestreak gently grasped his jaw and pulled him into a kiss. His glossa plunged into Jazz’s mouth, like a claim, and Jazz moaned, melting into it. He clutched at Bluestreak’s shoulders, little tremors darting through his array.  
  
Bluestreak nipped at Jazz’s lips. “You don’t want what I have, Jazz,” he murmured, his field stroking along Jazz’s like a warm embrace, or sinking into an oil bath.  
  
Jazz licked his lips. “Now, see. When ya put it that way, it feels like a challenge.” And he’d never met a challenge, he couldn’t win.  
  
“It’s not.” Bluestreak squeezed his hips and leaned back. “Or a game either. So let’s just have our good time and give thanks for the memories.”  
  
Jazz shifted his weight, unfolding his legs from the floor, only to wrap them around Bluestreak’s waist. He arched against the other mech, shivering as Bluestreak’s spike continued to press quite nicely on his overcharged nodes.  
  
“Don’t you have a berth?” he purred, content to let the implications lie for now. But he’d be digging into this mystery later.  
  
Bluestreak was an enigma, and Jazz sure enjoyed peeling those open.  
  
“Depends on whether or not you wanna be face down on it,” Bluestreak said with a laugh.  
  
Images, one after another, streamed across Jazz’s processor. He shivered. “Who said I gotta problem with that?” he drawled and rolled his hips, squeezing down on Bluestreak’s spike. “Are you gonna shove me down? Hold me there? Frag me deep, so deep I can’t see nothin’ but stars?”  
  
Bluestreak’s engine growled. “That’s not fair.” His optics were a dark hue of blue, his spike throbbing insistently against Jazz’s nodes.  
  
Jazz laughed, and it held nothing of humor. It wasn’t meant to. “Ain’t nothin’ about any of me that’s fair, baby Blue. Now get to it.”  
  
A grumbling roar vibrated Jazz’s frame. Bluestreak lurched to his pedes, his arms wrapped around Jazz, and Jazz had a moment to yelp and adjust his own weight. He and Bluestreak were of a height and mass, so it was with an uncoordinated stagger that they crossed the floor and hit the berth.  
  
Jazz landed on his back with barely a bounce, the berthpad thin and cheap, but he didn’t have long to lament that. Not with Bluestreak pulling out of him, grabbing Jazz’s hips, and flipping him over to his hands and knees. He clambered onto the berth after Jazz, sliding back in without missing a beat, and they both moaned.  
  
“Just stay stop,” Bluestreak said, his vocals tangling with bare restraint, one arm looping around Jazz’s waist as he ground against Jazz’s aft.  
  
Yes. Now this was what he was talking about.  
  
Jazz’s fingers curled into the berth as he shoved himself back. “Not gonna,” he moaned. “So you better do me harder.”  
  
Bluestreak slammed into him, setting up a driving pace, mercilessly assaulting Jazz’s more than primed nodes. “Say it if you need it!”  
  
“Won’t!”  
  
Bluestreak growled and his frame bore down on Jazz’s, hot and heavy. He panted into Jazz’s audial, his other hand curving around Jazz’s chassis, his fingers brushing over Jazz’s intake.  
  
“Don’t let me get away with everything, or I’ll take it all,” Bluestreak said fiercely, his hips slamming against Jazz’s, spike riding hard on each and every node as charge crackled brightly between their arrays.  
  
Jazz shoved back, the berth creaking. “Do it!” he demanded, vents coming in sharper pants, his vision streaking with static. “I don’t want it. Leave me nothing.”  
  
Bluestreak snarled an unholy sound and slammed into Jazz, driving him against the berth, his elbows wobbling. “Nothing but pleasure,” he said, and it sounded like a promise, even as Bluestreak drove deep, taking him in all definitions of the word.  
  
Jazz keened as he overloaded, hot enough to sear, and his sensory suites to crackle with static. The would went gray, until the spurts of heat against his nodes peppered everything with dancing lights. Bluestreak’s fingers brushed harder against his intake, an implication of darkness that Jazz nearly begged for.  
  
Bluestreak slammed deep, ground against Jazz’s aft, more spurts of transfluid painting his valve. His field wrapped around Jazz in a heavy embrace, even heavier than the sag of his frame as Jazz’s knees gave out and they clattered flat to the berth.  
  
Jazz gasped, his frame trembling, dragging in gulps of air through his vents. Bluestreak’s weight pinned him down, but the urge to flee was strangely absent. His head was spinning, and his spark twirled, but the rest was silent.  
  
Mercifully silent.  
  
Jazz slumped, his forehead pressed to the berth, which smelled strongly of Bluestreak – the cheap wax, the gun oil, and echoes of ammunition. Bluestreak whirred above him, fans spinning at max, until with a great heave, he tilted to the side, doorwings flicking aside at the last moment. In his absence, Jazz’s valve felt empty, calipers fluttering as they grasped at nothing.  
  
Jazz counted the beats of the silence. He waited for the shame to set in, from one or the other.  
  
“You all right?” Bluestreak asked, his voice crackling as though his vocalizer needed a reset.  
  
What an odd question. Jazz turned his head so that he could see Bluestreak, well aware that his knees were tucked beneath him and his aft still hanging in the air. His valve twitched and throbbed, soaked with lubricant and transfluid alike.  
  
“Not beaten or bruised or dented,” Jazz drawled. “You didn’t break me.”  
  
Bluestreak’s optics dimmed to a considering shade. “You sound disappointed.”  
  
Ah. There he went again. That incisive, cutting talk that made Jazz feel all twisted up inside.  
  
He shrugged. “It’s good enough.”  
  
“Good enough.” Bluestreak repeated the words like he were tasting them, and he wasn’t much fond of it. “That’s not gonna last.”  
  
“I know.” Jazz straightened out and wriggled toward Bluestreak, throwing a leg over Bluestreak’s nearest one. “Do I get cuddles with my frag or is that an extra fee?”  
  
Bluestreak chuckled and yanked him closer, one hand sliding beneath Jazz’s chassis to keep him tucked against Buestreak’s side. “It’s required.”  
  
“You promised you’d get me clean, too,” Jazz reminded him with a roll of his hips, that had the benefit of rubbing his valve lips against Bluestreak’s thigh, leaving a streak of fluids behind.  
  
“That I did. But I think if I started, you’d fall asleep on me.”  
  
Fatigue tugged at his lines, and cables. “Think you’re right,” Jazz said with an exaggerated yawn. He tucked his head on Bluestreak’s shoulder. “So why do ya do that anyway?”  
  
“I like it.”  
  
“No. I mean… pretend ya don’t have the darkness in ya.”  
  
Bluestreak was silent for a moment. His fingers stroked over Jazz’s shoulder, and even Jazz knew that a quiet Bluestreak wasn’t really a good thing.  
  
“It’s complicated,” he said finally, and his voice turned soft. “Takes a special kind of mech to understand it, and there aren’t many of those left. I don’t need people thinking they can’t trust me or I’m dangerous. And besides, the happier I am, the less people pity me.”  
  
Jazz slid his hand over Bluestreak’s ventrum, fingers teasing the seams there. “Yeah. I can get that.” He tilted his head up, though the angle made it difficult for him to see Bluestreak’s face. “Ya pick me on purpose? Or was that just a happy coincidence?”  
  
“Bit of both. I went to the bar to forget, noticed you wanting to do the same.” Bluestreak shrugged, making Jazz bob a little. “Figured it wouldn’t hurt to make an offer. Nothing wrong with a helping hand, right? Two lonely mechs with something common working through their darkness. Feeling less alone, even if it’s just for the night.”  
  
He cycled a quiet ventilation. “Rung used to tell me it was about taking things one day at a time, and breaking that up, too, if I needed it. So that’s how I count it now. By the nights. Lonely or otherwise.”  
  
“Mmm. Good advice.” Jazz swept his fingers over Bluestreak’s belly. “Well, they don’t always have to be lonely.”  
  
Bluestreak’s field nudged against his, though it was tentative in its interest. “You offering me your company?”  
  
“I’m makin’ an open invitation,” Jazz declared. “Ya can have my berth anytime. ‘specially if yer gonna show me the rules you wouldn’t earlier.” It was rare he could find anyone he resonated with, someone he didn’t have to play and pretend and put on a show just to ensure he’d have a good time. It would be nice to know he had this option again.  
  
Bluestreak’s thumb rubbed over the rim of his tire. “If you want them.”  
  
Jazz saw it for what it was, a chance to back out. A chance to say ‘nevermind’ that maybe he wasn’t ready for what Bluestreak hid from him.  
  
But it was there, in the simmer of peace around his spark, and the coil of yearning in his belly. He thought Bluestreak had something he wanted, something he needed. It was worth it to give it a try.  
  
“I do,” Jazz said and shuttered his optics, dimming his visor. “Need it. I think.”  
  
“Then we’ll try.”  
  
“Sounds good to me.” Jazz snuggled in closer, tuned his audials in to the sound of Bluestreak’s sparkbeat, a faster oscillation than his own. “What a lucky night.”  
  
Bluestreak’s field nudged against his, warm and affectionate with agreement.  
  
Jazz hadn’t expected to acquire a new partner and never would’ve thought to look at Bluestreak before. The friendly sniper had been far outside of his scope.  
  
He supposed mechs hid all kinds of things behind their smiles.  
  
Jazz couldn’t wait to see the rest.  
  


***


End file.
